Casualties
by halavana
Summary: So how did they get from the beach to Westchester at the end of X-Men: First Class?  Here's one possibility.  Not sure it's a good story, but that's why I'm posting.  Constructive comments welcome.  Flaming will be ignored.  Thanks for reading.


The Captain gazed through his binoculars toward the beach from which had come such havoc as he'd never expected to see since the latest world war. He wasn't sure what he was looking at, but it appeared to be the remains of a submarine and a still smoldering new fangled jet some government service was keeping under wraps. He'd seen both crash onto that beach only an hour before in a very unusual manner. Submarines are not made to fly through the air. Then came the order, without explanation, to fire on the beach. He ordered it done and was shocked and amazed to see their shells stop, turn and shoot right back at them, pause, fall, rocked forward again and then fall harmlessly into the water. Now that all was quiet, he needed orders but being a captain of many battles, he knew it was sometimes easier to gain forgiveness than permission. "Ensign, are you seeing what I'm seeing?" he asked.

"Beached submarine, downed jet, Five figures, one down, sir," came the reply.

"I see six figures, two down. Close enough." The Captain lowered the binoculars and continued his inspection from afar. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard a very weak voice. Help us, please, it said. This kind of thing happened to him sometimes after a battle - one of his men calling for help and him answering without hearing a physical voice. Tell that to a Navy counselor and get the Navy equivalent of a section eight, he reasoned, then commanded, "Ready my boat. We've got at least one more casualty. Doc, you're with me."

"Sir, are you sure…" began the first mate.

"Son," the Captain drawled, "I don't know how, and I might be wrong, but it seems to me those kids on the beach somehow managed to save our hides. Least we can do is help 'em out a little. We owe 'em that much. You have the bridge till I get back."

"Yes sir."

"Doc, you're with me. Have your boys bring two stretchers and a bodybag."

"Aye, Cap'n."

The Captain's boat was in the water and underway with him and his six man crew in a matter of minutes but top speed progress to the beach felt slow. He kept his complaints to himself however - no point harassing the pilot. Half an hour later, they finally drew close enough so that, unaided, he could clearly see the figures he'd been watching from the bridge. Leaving two men on the boat, the Captain ordered the doctor, his assistant who hauled a stretcher, and two remaining ensigns to accompany him to shore. They waded through the surf onto the sand, watching the trio who stood watching them. The boy on his back didn't move and the woman at his side looked from him to them in growing fear. One boy had an arm cocked to provide shade for his prostrate companion with the webbing of his flight suit.

"Looks like you kids have had an interesting day," said the Captain as he approached them. They all reacted with that "don't know whether to laugh or cry" expression he knew so well so he didn't ask them any questions just yet. His main concern was the boy on his back, the one with set jaw who looked like he was doing nothing but trying to remember to breathe. He'd been there before too. "So what we got here, son."

"He's been shot!" said the woman who held the boy's head in her lap.

"Doc," said the Captain and nodded for his ship's doctor to have a look.

"Let him lay flat," said the doctor and helped the woman gently rest the boy's head on the sand, moving a few small rocks out of the way and dishing the sand a little. "Let's take a look." The doctor instructed his assistant to help him roll the boy to one side. "Are you in pain?" he asked as they rolled him.

"Aaaaah!" came the response.

"I'll take that as a yes," replied the doctor as he inspected the small hole in the boy's flight suit. "Who shot you, son?"

"The bullet was from my gun," said the woman. "I was aiming at someone else and, it, ricocheted."

"I see," said the doctor. "We'll have to remove it…"

"Already done. He took it with him," gasped the boy, his voice and expression midway between amusement and heartbreak.

"Who?" asked the Captain, then turned to the woman. "The one you were aiming at?"

The woman nodded and the doctor shook his head. "He's going into shock. We need to get him to the ship."

The Captain agreed. "Do it. Get these other boys some water first, and the lady. They've had a long, hot day and need tending too. Ensign, let's have a look at that other fellow. Bring the bodybag…" Two ensigns dashed to the beached boat where one grabbed a couple of canteens and the other retrieved the other stretcher and a folded heavy duty canvas bag and followed the Captain up the beach where they found the other casualty. "Looks like this guy got drilled by a quarter," he observed after the ensign rolled the body. He waved for the other ensign to help with the bagging after the canteens were distributed, then strolled back to the original beach quintet once the bag was on its way to the boat. He decided to really look at them this time. The woman was pretty, but tough, like a government agent he'd met once. The three boys still standing were quite a trio. One wore a mask of some kind and blue fur covered the rest of him that was visible - weird looking but great Halloween costume. The next was blond and normal enough but his flight suit looked like someone cut a circle out of the center just for spite. The last, who still provided shade for his fallen friend, was a flaming red head. The webbing under his other arm was scorched and torn. The Captain thought he'd seen them fighting with two or three others earlier that day, but didn't really want to think of the implications for his world view and the lives of his crew. These three hadn't caused any harm. In fact, he got the impression that his crew was getting in their way. The others? Well, he didn't see any of them around, and they were already in his personal and ship's logs, so he chose to forget they existed for the time being.

The doctor and his assistant tried to cut a couple slits in the down boy's flight suit but the usually sharp scissors wouldn't go through the fabric. The blue haired boy said, "Excuse me," and flexed a claw. He inserted the claw into the bullet hole, ripping out a triangular shaped flap of the flight suit. "Sorry professor," the blue boy murmured.

"While you're at it, we'll need to start an IV once we're in sickbay. Since we've got him on his side now…"

Blue boy grunted once and with his claws carefully began a slit up the center back of the flight suit. "I'll try not to scratch you professor," he said.

"Doesn't matter. Won't notice if you do…" said the professor in a tight voice.

"You're a professor?" asked the Captain. "What you teach?"

"Genetics. Biophysics. Psychology."

"Sounds dangerous," quipped Doc.

The professor jerked in an unintended laugh and blue boy's claw slipped. "Sorry professor."

"Hank, stop apologizing," rasped the professor.

"Sor… Ok sir."

"You're name's Hank?" asked Doc.

"What of it?" growled Hank.

"Nothing, nothing. I'm just glad we're on the same side, I think."

"Don't take offense where none's intended, son," said the Captain. "We're just amazed to see what you can do with those claws, other than tear up bad guys."

"He does that well enough," said the red head.

"What're your friends' names?" asked Doc.

"Alex," replied the boy with a hole in the center of the chest of his flight suit.

"Sean," said the red head.

"What kind of material is this?" asked the doctor, then shook his head, adding, "Never mind, I'll ask you later," as he inspected the injury. "Looks like a double wide bullet hole. Not very deep. Very little bleeding but lots of bruising coming on. Impact did more damage than the actually bullet. You say someone removed it?"

"Yeah," replied the professor, hoarsely.

"That could do it. Darnedest thing I ever saw," murmured the doctor. "How?"

"Magnee…" The professor sounded like he was on the verge of passing out.

"A magnet? What kind of bullets do you use?" the Captain demanded of the woman.

"That's classified," she replied.

"Of course," replied the Captain then returned his attention to the professor.

Doc asked if he could move his legs. The only response was a shuddering shake of the head. That had to hurt, and not just physically, reasoned the Captain. The wound was still seeping blood so Doc packed it with a gauze bandage and rolled the professor onto his back on the waiting stretcher. "Who hit you?" asked Doc, resting the tips of his fingers on the side of the professor's face, below a red swollen mark under abraded skin. The young professor had shifted into breathe mode again, eyes closed, jaw set.

Spine injuries hurt like hell, don't they son, thought the Captain and waited until his eyes reopened and focused. "I've been around Navy boys enough to recognize marks of a fist fight, and you're gonna have a whale of a shiner in a day or two. Someone punched you. Hard."

"Doesn't matter," croaked the professor through grit teeth. "He's gone."

Doc looked at the Captain, who nodded curtly toward the boat.

"Load him up," said Doc and assented when Sean and Alex offered to carry the stretcher. His boys were loading the dead man and any offer to help from these strapping youngsters was welcome. Without being told, Hank waited until all were loaded and shoved the boat from the sand against the surf far enough that the motor engaged unimpeded. He then leaped lightly aboard, seating himself as close to the professor as he could. 


End file.
